Awakening Flames
by Demi-goddess
Summary: The date was November 18th, 1987. The place was Kings Cross station in central London, England. The event was a disaster. This is my tale. [Slight yaoi inside. only at very end]


A/N- All notes are at the end of this story.

Warnings- mild yaoi, but only right at the end. Not kidding, it's only in the last sentence.

* * *

It was a normal day. Just a normal, simple day, even by my standards. But then it turned deadly. I've never- and I don't think the city of London has either- experienced such a… an occurrence.

The date was November 18th, 1987. The place was Kings Cross station in central London, England. The event was a disaster. This is my tale.

* * *

"A return ticket to Regents Park station, please." I said politely to the woman behind the protective glass. She smiled and typed a few things on the computer in front of her, two credit card-sized orange-rimmed appearing out of the little printer. She slid them through the slit. "Thanks."

I turned and walked away from the ticket booths to stand before the large boards that hung from the high ceiling of London Liverpool Street station. The friendly voices sounded over the loud speakers advising people to hurry to platform twelve if they wished to travel to places like Brentwood or Shenfield and people around me bustled about, conversations merging into nonsense.

My attention was solely on the boards above. A few panels buzzed around to alter information, which was rather annoying because I couldn't find my destination easily.

But eventually, my sight spotted Kings Cross- St Pancras (which I had to get to if I wanted to get to Regents Park station) and what time my train was due to depart. I had about six or seven minutes, so I didn't hurry to the Tube map. Finding the route, I was internally glad that I did not have many stops in between, therefore it would be quick to get there even if the change at St Pancras was annoying.

I was planning to go see the Christmas lights in Regents street and I've heard that when the lights are switched on, it's a fantastic sight.

Pretty soon, I was standing at the platform, the annoying and pesky pigeons swooping overhead and cooing softly.

Since the holiday season had come around, the platform was pretty packed. Everyone- albeit me- was wrapped up in thick coats, hats and scarves. I wasn't because I was used to colder weather than this; coming from Russia does have its perks.

Nearby, a group of London girls stared at me, whispering and giggling once in a while. I watched them in the corner of my eye amusedly. London, I realised, is a very different place from Moscow. The Russian girls would never dress like that, even if they came over here. What are they trying to prove? How far their skirts can be up their asses without losing it in their butt-hole?

But my train arrived and I stepped inside the warm carriage. Luckily, the train was pretty empty to start with, so it wasn't that squashed- unlike usually. I sat down next to a male my age, but unfortunately, those girls sat opposite me too.

I simply ignored them, closing my eyes and crossing my arms over my chest, trying to block out all sounds.

My eyes opened, though, when I felt the train stop. Outside, 'Barbican' was written in large black letters upon the rounded wall, sometimes being blocked out by bodies. People exited and people entered; the carriage stayed with the same capacity.

After one more stop, I arrived at Kings Cross- St Pancras. The London girls looked very disappointed that I was leaving, but I didn't really care. I wasn't here to check out the female population. Not even the male.

But emerged out onto the platform and followed the bustling people out into the labyrinth-like corridors. The air, I could sense, was laced with an odd smell; different from the greasy, oily smell of underground train stations. No one seemed duly concerned, so I continued.

But it wasn't until I saw the Victoria Line station platform closed off and everyone climbing the Victoria Line escalators did I frown in confusion.

"We're evacuating the whole of Kings Cross, mate," the station worker replied after I had asked him. "The Piccadilly Line's escalator has caught fire and we're just taking precautions. It's only a diddy flame and we get them all the time. The fire brigade say nothing to worry 'bout. We just wanna keep you safe. Buses 'ave been scheduled to take you to the stations that you would get to on the Victoria, okay?"

I nodded after the man's speech and followed the crowd up the steps. The rule of 'stationary people on the right, walkers on the left' had been disregarded because everyone was walking up; left and right. I was one of the last up the steps.

Finally, I could breathe as I stepped into the large ticket hall. Pausing to zip up my jacket, I faltered when I smelt the same odour, only stronger. I looked to my right to the Piccadilly Line escalator just in time to see a fireball erupt from within.

There is no other way to describe it. It was an explosion without the sound. It was as if someone on the escalator was blasting fire from a giant flamethrower.

It exploded out of the corridor and I remember hearing the glass of the ticket booths smashing and feeling the intense heat grip me.

Pain also gripped me with its red-hot fingers, all down my legs. I dropped to the floor and rolled around to try and put out the flames, but it wasn't working. I felt my back was also on fire- I believed I was going to die.

All around me, women's shrieks and men's yells were deafened by the crackling and roaring of the flames that surrounded me. At that point I knew we were going to die; everyone.

Finally, I couldn't feel the flames licking at my now exposed skin and I slumped on my stomach, skin tingling with pain as my skin went numb. All around me, the air went muggy and suffocating, yet strangely inviting. The warmth of the hall added to the feeling and all I wanted to do at that point was sleep. I felt that if I fell asleep, I'd wake up all fine- maybe find it a nightmare.

My eyes flickered close, the fiery orange colours becoming dark and black as my eyelashes slowly shielded the view. My body became limp…

But then, a thought ran through my mind. I'm very conscious of thinking that I wouldn't mind dying in maybe a week or month's time in hospital after a long fight, but I refused to die like that in the ticket hall and become a charred, unrecognisable body.

The floor, I remember, was unbelievably hot. Like it was made of white hot metal. But with only my arms, I crawled along the floor. I didn't know where I was going. I had no plan; only to keep going. It was only pure luck and chance that my hand rested upon a step and I felt a cold breeze above me.

I heaved a cough and tried to pull myself up, but failed, just settling for lying there with only my hand nearest freedom.

I heard thudding footsteps coming toward me and I raised my head to try and look at my could-be saviour. Someone bent down and helped me up, but instead of helping me walk, he simply picked my up in a bridal lift, careful of my burnt legs and blistered back. I then blacked out.

* * *

I feel guilt. I know I shouldn't but I do. I survived that fire whereas thirty didn't. Out of thirty, six-including me- lived.

I suffered third degree burns on forty percent of my body in that inferno of a train station. I've had nine skin grafts so far and spent about three months so far in the hospital.

But I've had company.

That man who carried me out- who was ironically the same guy who I sat next to on the train- came to visit me. He's having almost the same amount of difficulty with dealing with this whole thing and he was a passer-by; but it doesn't matter. He's here. My Superman, you could say.

But he was only able to save me because I had crawled to the exit leading to Euston Road. If I had crawled to any other exit, I would have most likely died on those steps because the people in Euston road didn't know what was going on.

But I thank him everyday for it.

"Stop saying 'Thank you'."

I grinned, looking at him as he walked into the room. He sat in the chair beside me bed and sighed.

"Bad news?" I asked. He nodded, silver hair falling into his eyes. "To do with the fire?"

He nodded again. "Another body has been found." He looked at me with sad green eyes. "A little girl. Seven years old."

I sighed and closed my blue eyes.

He placed a hand on my shoulder. "Hey, it's not your fault…" He blinked and suddenly smirked. "You know- we've known each other for three months and we don't even know each others names."

"Tala." I introduced. "Tala Ivanov."

"I'm Bryan Kuznetsov. Well, isn't this fun; we're both Russian."

I laughed. "Yeah…"

I rested my hand on his- the one on my shoulder- and took it in my grasp. He then did something very unexpected. He brought my hand nearer to him and laid a kiss on it, eyes never leaving mine.

I pulled my hand back, but brought him nearer this time, our faces millimetres apart.

"Thank you…" I say before placing my lips upon his in a tender kiss…

* * *

END

* * *

This story is technically a true story- minus the falling in love.

Tala plays the part of a man called Daemonn Brody. He was from Scotland who came to London to be an IT specialist but got caught in the blast. His 'journey', which I wrote about in this story, was not true though; apart from he _was_ heading to Regents Street. He still stayed in London and continues with his IT job happily, as well as being a Special Constable (it's like being a policeman but still retaining your job). He does so to 'repay' London.

The Kings Cross fire was the worst rail related accident ever, but sadly that was change after the 7-7 attacks last year. It was started by a mere carelessly discarded match. If any more information is wanted, PM or email me for a link to an article about the Kings Cross fire, including one about Daemonn's story.

This was inspired after I watched 'Seconds from Disaster' and I felt that I needed to tell people about this tragic tale.

Please review and (pardon the pun) no flames.

**Demi-goddess**


End file.
